I consider this as very interesting, because I most truthfully guarantee that this specimen of witch-lore was written in good faith and firm belief, and is not at all, like most of the tales gleaned or gathered now-a-days, taken from people who got them from others who perhaps only half believed in them. She who wrote it has no more doubt that witch-cats prowl, and that wild-fire hisses forth from evil spirits in durance pent ’neath the soil of San Miniato, than that the spirit of the Arno appears as “a small white hand pointing tremulously upwards.”
There is given in the Facetiæ of Piovano Arlotto, which is considered a truthful record of the adventures of its subject, a tale relative to San Miniato which cannot here be deemed out of place. It is as follows:
La Testa di San Miniato.
“There was in Florence a poor and learned gentleman—savio e da bene, who was a good friend of Piovano Arlotto, who was also good to him, since he had often aided the former with money, meal, and many other things, and indeed without such help he could hardly have fed his family; for he had fourteen sons and daughters, and though the proverb says Figliuoli, mioli, ’lenzuoli non sono mai troppi in una casa—there are never too many children, glasses, or linen sheets in a house, this good man found indeed that he had too many of the former.
“Now to help dire need, this gentleman tried to buy on credit two bales of cloth, one wherewith to clothe his family, and the other to sell in order to make some money. To do this, he needed some one to be his security, and he had recourse to Piovano Arlotto, who willingly agreed to pay the manufacturer in case the friend who gave his note could not meet it. Now he found that the manufacturer had sadly cheated the purchaser in the measure or quantity, fully one-half, as was also evident to many others; however, as matters stood, he was obliged to let it pass.
“As things were thus, the poor gentleman died and passed away from this misera vita or sad life, and Piovano was in deep grief for his loss, and as much for the poor orphans.
“When the note fell due, the manufacturer went to Piovano Arlotto and asked for his money, saying that he only demanded what was justly due to him.
“And after a few days’ delay, he paid the man two-thirds of the sum, and ten florins for the time and trouble, and said he would not give a farthing more. Then the dealer begun to dun him, but he evaded every demand. Then the merchant employed a young man, eighteen years of age, who had not his equal in Florence to collect debts. And this youth set to work in earnest to get from the priest the sum of about twenty-eight gold florins, still due from the account.
“In a few days he had attacked Piovano a hundred times with the utmost impudence, in the market, in the public squares, on the streets at home, and in the church, without regard to persons present, at all times, and in every aggravating way, until the priest conceived a mortal hatred of the dun, and turned over in his head many ways to get rid of him.
“At last he went one day to the Abbot of San Miniato or Monte, and said to him: ‘Padre reverendo, I seek your paternal kindness to relieve a very distressing case in which I am concerned. I have a nephew who is possessed by the devil, one into whom an evil spirit has entered, and who has a monomania that I owe him money, and is always crying to me everywhere, ‘When are you going to pay me? I want twenty-eight florins.’ ’Tis a great pity, for he is a fine young man, and something really ought to be done to cure him. Now I know that the holy relic which you possess, the worthy head of the glorious and gracious San Miniato, has such a virtue, that, if it be once placed on the head of this poor youth, ’twill certainly cure him. Would you so contrive, in any way, to put it on him some time this week?’
“The Abbot answered, ‘Bring him when you will.’
“Piovano thanked him and said: ‘I will bring him on Saturday, but when he shall be here, I pray you be at the gate with seven or eight strong men, that he may not escape; for you know, holy father, that these demoniacs are accustomed to rage when they see relics and hear prayers, and it will be specially so with this poor youth, who is young and vigorous—yea, it may be that ’twill be necessary to give him sundry cuffs and kicks, so terrible is the power of Satan—lupus esuriens. Do so, I pray, without fearing to hurt my feelings—nay, it would be a great pleasure to me, so heartily do I desire to see him cured.’
“The Abbot answered, ‘Bring him here, my son, and I will see that all is rightly done.’
“Piovano returned, saying to himself:
“‘Chi vuol giusta vendetta,
In Dio la metta.’
“‘Leave vengeance to the Lord, or to his ministers—videlicet, the monks of San Miniato. Which I will do.’
“On Friday he went to the merchant who had sold the cloth, and said: ‘As for this which I owe you, it is all rubbish. You cheated the man who gave you the note out of half the cloth—you know it, and I can prove it. However, to avoid further trouble and litigation, I am willing to pay all, but you must allow time for it. Dura cosa e l’aspettare—’tis hard to wait, but harder still to have nothing to wait for. The monks of San Miniato owe me for forty cords of wood, which is to be paid for at the end of two years, and then you shall have your money.’
“This sounded like ‘for ever and a day’ to the creditor, and in a rage he had recourse to his collector, who on Saturday morning went to San Miniato. When he arrived, he had to wait till the grand mass was over, to the great vexation of the young man, and meanwhile eight powerful monks with long staves had grouped themselves about the door, awaiting a little healthy exercise.
“And mass being over, the dun hastened up to the Abbot, who, taking him by the hand, said: ‘Oh, my son, put thy trust in God and in San Miniato the blessed; pray that he may take this evil conceit from thy head,’ and with this much more, till the young man grew impatient and said:
“‘Messer Abbot, to-day is Saturday, and no time for sermons. I have come to know what you are going to do about this debt of Piovano of twenty-eight florins, and when it will be paid?’
“Then the Abbot, hearing, as he expected, the demand for money, began to exhort and exorcise. And the youth began to abuse the Abbot with all kind of villanies, and finally turned to depart; but the Abbot caught him by the cloak, and there was a fight. Then came the eight monks, who seizing him, chastised him lustily, and bound him with cords, and bearing him into the sacristy, sprinkled him with holy water, and incensed him indeed—and then set the holy head of San Miniato on his head—he thinking they were all mad as hatters. Then they exorcised the evil spirits in him—‘Maledicti! excommunicati et rebelles—sitis in pæna æternali nulla requies sit in vo-o-o-bis si statim non eritis obedientes, præceptis me-e-e-e-is!’—until the youth had to give in, and beg the Abbot’s pardon, and being released, fled as for dear life.
“But he met outside Piovano Arlotto, who said to him: ‘Thou hast had a dainty drubbing, my son, but there is plenty more where that came from—non v’e nè fin, ne fondo—there is neither end nor bottom to it. Now go to thy master, and say that if he goes further in this business he will fare worse than thou hast done.’
“The youth, returning to Florence, told the tale to his employer, and how Piovano Arlotto had declared if they dunned him any more he would do his best to have them drubbed to death. So they dropped the matter—like a hot shot.
“Everybody in Florence roared with laughter for seven days—sparsa la piacevolezza per Firenze, vi fu che ridere per setti giorni—that is to say, everybody laughed except one clothmaker and his collector, and if they smiled, ’twas sour and bitterly—the smile which does not rise above the throat—the merriment like German mourning grim. And as for the young man, he had to leave Florence, for all of whom he would collect money told him to go to—the monks of San Miniato!”
There was a curious custom, from which came a proverb, in reference to this monastery, which is thus narrated in that singular work, La Zucca del Doni Fiorentino (“The Pumpkin of Doni the Florentine”):
“There is a saying, E non terrebbe un cocomere all’erta—He could not catch a cucumber if thrown to him. Well, ye must know, my masters and gallant signors, that our Florentine youth in the season of cucumbers go to San Miniato, where there is a steep declivity, and when there, those who are above toss or roll them down to those below, while those below throw them up to those above, just as people play at toss-and-pitching oranges with girls at windows. So they keep it up, and it is considered a great shame and sign of feebleness (dapocaggine) not to be able to catch; and so in declining the company of a duffer one says: ‘I’ll have nothing to do with him—he isn’t able to catch a cucumber.’
“It is one of the popular legends of this place that a certain painter named Gallo di San Miniato was a terribly severe critic of the works of others, but was very considerate as regarded his own. And having this cast at him one day, and being asked how it was, he frankly replied: ‘I have but two eyes wherewith to see my own pictures, but I look at those of others with the hundred of Argus.’”
And indeed, as I record this, I cannot but think of a certain famous critic who is so vain and captious that one must needs say that his head, like a butterfly’s, is all full of little i’s.
“And this tale of two optics reminds me of the story of Messer Gismondo della Stufa, a Florentine of Miniato, who once said to some friends: ‘If I had devoted myself to letters, I should have been twice as learned as others, and yet ye cannot tell why.’ Then some guessed it would have been due to a good memory, while others suggested genius, but Messer Gismondo said: ‘You are not there yet, my children; it is because I am so confoundedly cross-eyed that I could have read in two books at once.’”
In the first legend which I narrated, the fall of the tower is attributed to witchcraft or evil spirits. In the very ancient frescoes of San Miniato there is one in which the devil causes a wall or tower to fall down and crush a young monk. What confirms the legend, or its antiquity, is that the original bell-tower of San Miniato actually fell down in 1499. The other then built was saved from a similar fate by the genius of Michael Angelo Buonarotti, who built a bank of earth to support it.
“Hæc fabula of the head of San Miniato,” wrote the immortal Flaxius on the proof, “teaches that he who would get round a priest in small trickery must arise uncommonly early—nay, in most cases ’twould be as well not to go to bed at all—especially when dunning is ‘on the tap.’ Concerning which word dun it is erroneously believed in England to have been derived from the name of a certain Joseph Dunn, who was an indefatigable collecting bailiff. But in very truth ’tis from the Italian donare, to give oneself up to anything with ardour—to stick to it; in accordance with which, donar guanto, or to give the glove, means to promise to pay or give security. And if any philologist differs from me in opinion as to this, why then—let him diff! Which magnanimously sounding conclusion, when translated according to the spirit of most who utter it, generally means:
“Let him be maledict, excommunicate, and damnated ad inferos—in sæcula sæculorum!—twice over!”
“He who speaks from a window or a pulpit, or the top of a good name or any high place, should speak wisely, if he speak at all, unto those who pass.”
The Church of Santa Maria Maggiore “remounts,” as the Italians say, or can be traced back to 700 a.d., but it was enlarged and renewed by the architect Bueno in the twelfth century, and according to Pitré it was the germ of a new style of architecture which we find much refined (ringentilata) in Santa Maria del Fiore. “There were, regarding its bell-tower, which no longer exists, many tales and curious anecdotes, which might form a part of a fine collection of local legends.” There is still to-day on the wall above the little side-door facing the Via de’ Conti, a much worn head of stone, coming out of a round cornice, which is in all probability the one referred to in the following legend:
“There was once a condemned criminal being carried along to execution, and on the way passed before the Church of Santa Maria Maggiore. One of the friars put his head out of a little round window, which was just large enough for it to pass through, and this was over the entrance on the lesser side of the church, facing the Via de’ Conti. As the condemned passed by the friar said:
“‘Date gli da bere, ’un morira mai.’
“‘Give him a drink and he never will die.’
“To which the condemned replied:
“‘E la testa di costì tu ’un la levrai’.
“‘And thy head shall stick where it is for aye.’
“And so it came to pass that they could not get the head of the friar back through the hole, so there he died. And some say that after they got the body out they carried his likeness in stone and put it there in the little round window, in remembrance of the event, while others think that it is the friar himself turned to stone—chi sa?”
The conception of a stone head having been that of a person petrified for punishment is of the kind which would spring up anywhere, quite independently of tradition or borrowing; hence it is found the world over. That ideas of the kind may be common, yet not in common, nor yet uncommon, is shown by the resemblance of the remark of the friar:
“Give him a drink and he never will die,”—
which was as much as to say that inebriation would cause him to forget his execution—to a verse of a song in “Jack Sheppard”:
“For nothing so calms,
Our dolorous qualms,
And nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles,
So well as a drink from the bowl of Saint Giles.”
There is a merrier tale, however, of Santa Maria Maggiore, and one which is certainly far more likely to have occurred than this of the petrified pater. For it is told in the ancient Facetiæ that a certain Florentine nobleman, who was a jolly and reckless cavalier, had a wife who, for all her beauty, was bisbetica e cattiva, capricious and spiteful, malicious and mischievous, a daughter of the devil, if there ever was one, who, like all those of her kind, was very devout, and went every day to confession in Santa Maria Maggiore, where she confessed not only her own sins, but also those of all her neighbours. And as she dwelt with vast eloquence on the great wickedness of her husband—having a tongue which would serve to sweep out an oven, or even a worse place [150]—the priest one day urged the husband to come to confession, thinking that it might lead to more harmony between the married couple. With which he complied; but when the priest asked him to tell what sins he had committed, the cavalier answered, “There is no need of it, Padre; you have heard them all from my wife many a time and oft, and with them a hundred times as many which I never dreamed of committing—including those of all Florence.”
It was in the first Church of Santa Maria Maggiore, which stood on the site of the present, that San Zenobio in the fourth century had walled into the high altar an inestimable gift which he had received from the Pope. This was “the two bodies of the glorious martyrs Abdon and Sennen, who had been thrown unto wild beasts, which would not touch them, whereupon they were put to death by swords in the hands of viler human beasts.” I may remark by the way, adds the observant Flaxius, that relics have of late somewhat lost their value in Florence. I saw not long ago for sale a very large silver casket, stuffed full of the remains of the holiest saints, and the certificates of their authenticity, and I was offered the whole for the value of the silver in the casket—the relics being generously thrown in! And truly the mass of old bones, clay, splinters, nails, rags with blood, bits of wood, dried-up eyes, et cetera, was precisely like the Voodoo-box or conjuring bag of an old darkey in the United States. But then the latter was heathen! “That is a very different matter.”
“Fons Florentinus.—In foro lympidas aquas fons effundit marmoreis figuris Neptuni et Faunorum ab Amanate confectis.”—Templum Naturæ Historicum. Henrici Kornmanni, a.d. 1614.
The most striking object in the most remarkable part of Florence is the colossal marble Neptune in the Fountain of the Signoria, by Ammanati, dating from 1575. He stands in a kind of car or box, drawn by horses which Murray declares “are exceedingly spirited.” They are indeed more so than he imagined, for according to popular belief, when the spirit seizes them and their driver, and the bronze statues round them, they all go careering off like mad beings over the congenial Arno, and even on to the Mediterranean! That is to say, that they did so on a time, till they were all petrified with their driver in the instant when they were bounding like the billows, which are typified by white horses.
Neptune has, however, lost his name for the multitude, who simply call him the Biancone, or Great White Man; and this is the legend (given to me in writing by a witch), by which he is popularly known:
Biancone, the God of the Arno.
“Biancone was a great and potent man, held in great respect for his grandeur and manly presence, a being of tremendous strength, and the true type of a magician, [152] he being a wizard indeed. In those days there was much water in the Arno, [153] and Biancone passed over it in his car.
“There was then in the Arno a witch, a beautiful girl, the vera dea or true goddess of the river, in the form of an eel. And Biancone finding this fish every day as he drove forth in his chariot, spurned it away con cattivo garbo—with an ill grace. And one day when he had done this more contemptuously than usual, the eel in a rage declared she would be revenged, and sent to him a smaller eel. But Biancone crushed its head (le stiaccio il chapo).
“Then the eel appeared with a little branch of olive with berries, and said:
“‘Entro in questa carozza,
Dove si trove l’uomo,
L’uomo il più potente,
Che da tutti e temuto;
Ed e un uomo grande,
E grande, e ben vero;
Ma il gran dio del Arno,
Il potente Biancone,
Non sara il solo potente;
Vi sara una piccola pesce,
Una piccola anguilla;
Benche piccola la sia;
Fara vedere la sua potenza
Tu Bianconé, a mi,
Le magie, e siei mezzo stregone
Io una piccola anguillina,
Sono una vera fata,
E sono la Fata dell Arno,
Tu credevi d’essere
Il solo dio d’Arno,
Ma ci, no, io che sono
La regina, e la vera,
Vera dea qui del Arno.’“‘Lo, I enter in this chariot!
Where I find the man of power,
Who is feared by all before him,
And he is a mighty being,
Great he is, there’s no denying;
But the great god of the Arno,
The so powerful Biancone,
Is not all alone in power;
There’s a little fish or eel, who,
Though but little, has the power,
Mighty man, to make thee tremble!
Biancone, thou art only
Unto me as half a wizard;
I, a little eel of the Arno,
Am the fairy of the river;
Thou didst deem thyself its ruler;
I deny it—for I only
Am the queen and the true goddess—
The true goddess of the Arno.’
“Having said this, she touched with the twig of olive the little eel whom Biancone had killed, and repeated while touching it:
“‘Anguillina che dal Grande
Siei stata stiacciata,
Io con questo ramoscello
Ti faccio in vita tornare,
E al Grande, io, del Arno
Tutto il mio pensiero,
Tutto posso raccontare.’“‘I, little eel, who by the mighty
Man hast been to death delivered,
Do call thee back unto the living!
Wake thee with this twig of olive!
Now unto this Biancone,
Thou who art too of the Arno,
Shalt speak out thy mind and freely.’
“Then the little eel, resuscitated and influenced by the goddess of the Arno, said:
“‘Biancone, tu che siei
Il potente dio dell’ Arno,
L’anguilla discacciata,
Che tu ai discacciata,
E di te inamorata,
E di te più potente,
E se tu la discaccerai,
Ti giura la vendetta,
E si vendichera. . . .’“‘Biancone, Biancone!
Thou great spirit of the Arno,
Lo, the eel by thee despised
Turns again with love unto thee:
She surpasses thee in power;
If she is by thee rejected,
She will vow revenge upon thee,
And will be avengèd truly.’
“‘Io non voglio amar donne,
Sia pure d’una bellezza
Da fare a cecare,
Ma per me non mi fa niente,
Non voglio amare donne,
Sara per bellezza una
Gran persona, ma non vero,
Per potenza, per che più,
Più potente di me non
Vi e alcun . . . ’“‘I seek not the love of women.
Thou art of a dazzling beauty;
Unto that I am indifferent;
I seek not the love of ladies.
Thou may’st be full great in beauty,
Not in power, for in power
I shall ever be the greater.’
“Then the eel arose [155] and said:
“‘Biancone, or guardami,
Guarda mi bene perche più,
Non mi vedrai vedermi,
E se mi vedrai,
Non mi potrai toccare,
Dici che più potente
Di te non cé nessuno,
Ma sa io la prima,
Mia potenza e quella
Di vederti inamorato,
Di me vere inamorato,
Ma che ora sono io,
Che ti discaccio per la tua,
Al te si guardami mi vedi.’“‘Biancone, now regard me,
Look well at me now, for never,
Wilt thou ever more behold me,
Or if thou behold’st me, touch me,
And thou say’st that thou hast power,
And that none can rival with thee.
Thou shalt learn that I am stronger,
For I’ve power to make thee love me,
But ’tis I who now reject thee,
If thou doubtest—now behold me!’
“And then, instead of an eel, appeared a maid of dazzling beauty, and Biancone sought to embrace her, but could not, and said:
“‘Contentami una volta
Sola, o dea dell’ Arno;
Lascia che ti abbraci
Una volta sola, o dea.’“‘For a single time content me,
Lovely goddess of the Arno;
Let me but for once embrace thee,
Yield to me I pray, O fairy!’
“But the goddess of the Arno replied:
“‘Una donna più potente
Di te, non si lascia
Vincere da uno superbo;
Tuo pari mi basta di
Far ti vedere, che c’e
Persona ancora di te
Più potente . . . Ora io
Mi voglio vendi care per che,
Tu mi ai discacciata,
Tante volte, ed ora invece
Tu saresti bene contento
Di abbraciarmi anche,
Anche or per una volta,
Ma no. Addio Biancone!’“‘A woman who has greater power
Than thine will surely not be conquered
Merely by pride in outward seeming,
But now, in brief, I will content me
By proving mine the greater power;
I seek to avenge myself upon thee,
Since of old thou didst despise me
Many times, but now wouldst gladly,
Though it were but for once, embrace me—
Farewell for ever, Biancone!’
“And Biancone fled, but he always bore the beautiful goddess in his mind, and could not forget her, so he too meditated a vengeance.
“But the vengeance of a woman strikes more powerfully than that of a man.
“One day when Biancone was passing over the Arno in his chariot, with all his attendants, he thought he saw the eel engaged in forming the basin of a fountain (vasca), and bear it away in a car, she herself being in it, [156] and it was covered with glass; but in the time that he thought (or dreamed) that he saw this, the eel appeared and said:
“‘Il momenta della mia vendetta
E arrivato, e ti giuro
Giuro che la mia vendetta
E potente, or Turanna,
Mia regina delle Fate,
E dea dell Arno, commanda
Che questa carroza sprafondi,
E che tu e la tua servitu,
Non vi potrete salvare.’“‘Now the time to wreak my vengeance
Has arrived, and I swear thee
That my vengeance shall be fearful,
Very great, because my sovereign,
Turanna, queen of all the fairies,
Orders that thy chariot
Shall be firmly fixed for ever,
And that thou and all thy following
Never more canst hope for rescue.’
“Then she sang again:
“‘Confino i tuoi servitori,
Quelli che ti aiut avanno
A discacciar sui, o
Diventare della forma,
Mezze bestie, mezzi uomini,
E tu o Biancone,
Che tanto grande siei,
Ti confino a stare sempre,
Sempre ritto e non potrete
Mai ragionare, ne camminare
Solo quando sara luna,
Luna piena, passero io
Ti vedro, e mi vedrai,
Ma parlarmi non potrai.“‘Quando sara luna piena,
E che sara una notte,
Che sara mezza nuvola,
E mezza serena s’enderai,
Della tua carozza nei,
Nei momenti che la Luna
Resta sotto le nuvole,
E cosi potrei favellare,
Con tutte le statue, che ai
Attorno, allor tua carozza,
E col mio permesso potrai
Andare anche dai tuoi amici!’“‘I hereby compel thy servants,
Those who aided thee, to vanish,
Or take forms half brute, half human. [158]
As for thee, O Biancone!
Thou who art so tall and stately,
Thou shalt stand erect for ever,
Without power to speak or wander,
Only when the full moon shining
Falls upon thee, I will pass thee,
I shall see thee; thou will see me,
Without power to address me!“‘When the moon in full is shining,
Yet when clouds begin to gather;
Half in light and half in darkness,
Thou may’st only in the moment
When the moon is overclouded,
Leave thy chariot, and have converse
With the statues who are round thee,
Then thou may’st, by my permission,
Go among thy friends, then only.’”
I may here explain to the reader that this tale with its elaborate invocations is not current as here given among the people. Such forms and formulas are confined to the witches, who, as in all countries, are the keepers of mysterious traditions. All that is generally heard as regards this subject is, that when the full moon shines on Biancone at midnight, he becomes animated, and walks about the Signoria conversing with the other statues.
The Neptune was, with horses and all, produced by Bartolommeo Ammanati between 1564 and 1565. It has a certain merit of grandeur, but in lesser degree is like its neighbour Cacus, by Baccio Bandinelli, which Benvenuto Cellini justly regarded as resembling a mere bag of fat. When Michael Angelo saw the Neptune he exclaimed: “Ammanato! Ammanato! che bel blocco che hai sciupato!”—“Ammanato, what a fine block of marble thou hast spoiled!”
The Italians say that the satyr at the corner of the Palazzo Vecchio is a copy, because the original was stolen one night in January in 1821, “and is now one of the finest bronzes in the British Museum of London.” It may be so; there was a great deal of fine stealing in those days. I suspect, however, that the truth is that as these images return to life now and then, the satyr availed himself of his revivification to set forth on his travels, and coming to London and finding good company in the British Museum, settled down there. But truly, when I think of the wanton and heartless destruction of beautiful and valuable old relics which has gone on of late years in Florence, to no earthly purpose, and to no profit whatever, I feel as if all the tales of such things being stolen or sold away to foreign museums were supremely silly, and as if it were all just so much saved from ruin—in case the tales are true.
“Hæc fabula docet,” wrote Flaxius, “a strange lesson. For as it was anciently forbidden to make images, because it was an imitation of God’s work; and secondly, because men believed that spirits would enter into them—even so doth it become all novel-writers, romancers, and poets, to take good heed how they portray satyrs, free-love nymphs, and all such deviltry, because they may be sure that into these models or types there will enter many a youthful soul, who will be led away thereby to madness and ruin. Which is, I take it, the most practical explanation for commandment, which hath been as yet set coram populo.”
“Lord Foulis in his castle sat,
And beside him old Red-cap sly;
‘Now tell me, thou sprite, who art mickle of might,
The death which I shall die?’”—Scott’s Border Minstrelsy.
The Bargello has been truly described as one of the most interesting historical monuments of Florence, and it is a very picturesque type of a towered mediæval palace. It was partly burned down in 1322, and rebuilt in its present form by Neri di Fioravanti, after which it served as a prison. Restored, or modernised, it is now a museum. As I conjectured, there was some strange legend connected with it, and this was given to me as follows:
Il Folletto Rosso.
“The Red Goblin is a spirit who haunts the Bargello, or was there of old in the prisons, nelle carceri, and he always foretold to every prisoner what his sentence would be before it was pronounced.
“He always appeared in the cell of the condemned, and first lighting a candle, showed himself all clad in red, and said to the prisoner:
“‘Piangi, piangi, ma piangi forte,
E prepararti che e giunta
L’ora della tua morte.’“‘Weep, oh weep full many a tear;
Make ready; thy hour for death is near.’
“Then if the prisoner replied boldly:
Then the goblin would burst into a laugh and say:
“‘Non piangere, ridi, ridi!
Ma ride sempre, e spera
Che io ti aiutera!’
“But if the prisoner had replied badly, or cursed, or said ‘Vai al diavolo!’ or ‘Che il diavolo ti porti!’—then there were heard dreadful sounds, such as frightened all the prisoners and assistants, and the goblin vanished crying:
“‘Woe, woe, and woe to thee!
For thou soon shalt punished be;
Away be led, to lose your head,
There is no hope for thee!’
“And after that the man might well despair. Yet the Red Goblin was a jolly sprite when not crossed, and made great sport for the prisoners, who all knew him. He went into every cell, and would tell wild tales, and relate to every one all that he, the prisoner, had done since he was a boy, and how he came to be locked up, and what would be the end of it, and told all this with such peals of laughter that the most unhappy were fain to laugh with him.
“Then the assistants and the director hearing such sounds, thought it was the prisoners rioting, but could not detect them. [161a] And the spirit relieved many innocent men from punishment, and especially visited those condemned to wear the iron collar or gogna, which was fastened to a post, but at the Bargello it was on the Campanile outside, in sight of all the people. [161b]
“Now there was a young man in the prison who was good at heart, and deeply repented that he had done wrong, and now feared that he indeed was in the power of Satan, and destined to be in prison for all this life and in inferno all the next.
“And when he was thus sunk in misery one night, he heard him, and was in great alarm, but it said, ‘Fear not, for I am the protecting spirit of the prisoners in the Bargello, and have come to free thee; put thy trust in me and I will save thee!’
“Then he told the youth how he was to act, and bade him say certain things when examined, and follow closely all the goblin would whisper to him; but whether it was his fault or his failure, he missed every point and went wrong in his replies, the end being that he was condemned to prison for life. Truly it went to his heart to think that while he lived he should always see the sun looking like a chess-board, [162] and bitterly reflected on the proverb:
“‘Ne a torto nè a ragione,
Non ti lasciar metter prigione.’“‘Whether you’re right or wrong, my man,
Keep out of prison as long as you can.’
“But it went most bitterly to his heart to think that he had by his own stupidity and want of study lost the chance of freedom. And for some time the Red Goblin never came near him. But at last the prisoner heard him call, and then the spirit said, ‘Now thou see’st to what a pass thy neglect of my advice has brought thee. Truly il diavolo non ti tenterebbe—the devil takes no pains to tempt such a fool as thou, for he knows that he will get him without the trouble of asking. And yet I will give thee one more chance, and this time be thou wide awake and remember that a buona volontà, non manca facoltá—where there’s a will there’s a way.’
“Now there was a great lord and mighty man of the state who had been in the Bargello, and greatly comforted by the Red Goblin, who now went unto this Signore, speaking so well of the young man that the latter ere long had a new trial. And this time, I warrant you, he studied his case like a lawyer; for asino punto, convien che trottè—when an ass is goaded he must needs trot—and the end thereof was that he trotted out of prison, and thence into the world, and having learned repentance as well as the art of watching his wits and turning them to account, prospered mightily, and to his dying day never forgot to pray for the Red Goblin of the Bargello.”
There have been other spirits which haunted prisons; there was one in the Bastile, and the White Ladies of Berlin and Parma are of their kind. This of the Bargello is certainly the household sprite with the red cap, in a short shirt, who was very well known to the Etruscans and Romans, and afterwards to the Germans, the Lutin of the French castles, the Robin Goodfellow of England, and the Domovoy of the Russians. His characteristics are reckless good nature mingled with mischief and revenge; but he is always, when not thwarted, at heart a bon garçon. Of the Bargello I have also the following anecdotes or correlative incidents:
Giorgio.
“Truly I will not swear that this is a story of the Bargello, for I am very particular as to truth, Signore, but I will swear that ’tis of a prison in Florence, and that when it happened the Bargello was the only prison there. And it runs thus: Giorgio, whoever he was, had killed a man, and as the law ran in his case, in those strange days, he could not be executed till he had confessed or owned the deed. And he would not confess.
“Now there was a lawyer, un notaio, ò chi che si fosse (or whoever he was), who declared that he would bring to pass with a trick what justice had not been able to do with torture. So going to the prison, he called for wine, and when they had drunk deep he cried heartily:
“‘Orsú, Giorgio, stiamo un poco allegri, cantiam qualche cosa’—‘Come now, Giorgio, let’s be merry and sing something!’
“‘Come ti piace’—‘As you please,’ quoth Master Giorgio. ‘You sing one line.’
“So the notary began, touching a lute:
“‘Giorgi hà morto l’huomo.’
“‘Giorgio once killed a man.’
“To which Giorgio, who was sharp as a razor, added:
“‘Così non canta Giorgio.’
“‘But it was not thus that Giorgio sang.’
“So it passed into a proverb, meaning as much as Così non dico io—I don’t say that; or Così non l’intendo io—I don’t see it in that light. And so the notary found that you cannot see Verona from the top of every hill.
“And there is another story of a prisoner, who had long curling hair in the old Florentine style. Hair, Signore, like charity, may cover much sin. Now this man, after he had been a while in the Bargello, got his sentence, which was to have his ears cropped off. But when the boia or hangman came to do the job, he found that the man had had his ears cut off smooth long before. Whence came the proverb:
“‘Quel che havea mozzi gli orecchi,
E’ci sara de gli arreticati.’“‘He whose ears had been cut away,
Fooled another, or so they say.’
Which is a proverb to this day, when a man finds that somebody has been before him.
“And it may have been that Donatello, the great sculptor, was in the Bargello when he said, ‘E’rise a me ed io riso à lui’—‘He laughs at me, and I do laugh at him.’ Donatello was in quistione, or in trouble with the law, and in prison, for having killed one of his pupils. The Marquis di Ferrara asked him if he was guilty. But Donatello had already received from the Marquis a license to slay any one in self-defence, and so he made that answer.”
A Legend of the Bargello.
“One day a young man, who had been gaming and lost, threw some dirt at an image of the Virgin in one of the numerous shrines in the city, blaming her for his bad luck. He was observed by a boy, who reported it to the authorities, and was soon arrested. Having confessed that he did it in a rage at having lost, he was hanged the same night from one of the windows of the Bargello.” [164]
Thereby adding another ghost or folletto to those who already haunt the place. It should be noted that according to Italian witch-lore a ghost is never simply the spirit of the departed as he was, but a spirit transformed. A witch becomes a fata, good or bad, and all men something more than they were.
Among other small legends or tales in which the Bargello is referred to, I find the following, of which I must first mention that debito in Italian means not only debt but duty, and that fare un debito is not only to get into debt, but to do what is just, upright, and honourable.
“It happened once, long ago, that a certain good fellow was being escorted, truly not by a guard of honour, but by several bum-bailiffs, to the Bargello, and met a friend who asked him why he was in custody. To which he replied, ‘Other men are arrested and punished for crime or villainy, but I am treated thus for having acted honourably, per aver fatto il debito mio.’
“And it happened to this same man that after he had been entertained for a time at the public expense in that gran albergo, or great hotel, the Bargello, that the Council of Eight, or the public magistracy, gave him a hearing, and told him that he must promptly pay the debt which he owed, which was one of fifty scudi or crowns. To which he replied that he could not. Then the chief of the Eight said, ‘We will find out a way to make you pay it, be sure of that.’ To which he answered, ‘De gratia, Signore, while you are about it, then, make it a hundred, for I have great need just now of another fifty crowns.’”
Prisoners in the Bargello, as elsewhere, were subject to the most appalling injustice and cruelty. Thus we are told of Cosimo di Medici, when he was doing all in his power to assassinate or poison Piero Strozzi, that he was always very circumspect as regarded the venom, “and did not use it till he had studied the effects and doses on condemned prisoners in the Bargello.” But “condemned prisoners” here means doubtless those who were simply condemned to be made the subjects of such experiments, as may be supposed, when we learn that Cosimo obtained the recipe of making up a poison from Messer Apollino, secretary of Piero Luigi, by torturing him. It was thus they did in good old pious times. Poisoning, as a most familiar and frequent thing, even in England, did not pass out of practice, even in politics, until that great beginning of a moral era, the Reformation.
“Hæc fabula docet,” wrote the good and wise Flaxius on the revise, “that as a Zoccolone friar is the best priest for a peasant, so even a buon diavolo, or jolly devil, or a boon blackguard who knows his men, is, perhaps, generally the best guide for certain kinds of rough sinners, often setting them aright in life where a holy saint would be inter sacrem et saxum, or in despair. As for poisoning, I fear that cup, far from passing away, is, under another form, passed round far more frequently now than it ever was. For François Villon declared that lying gossip, tittle-tattle, and second-hand slander were worse than poison (which simply kills the body), and this with infinite refinement prevails far more in modern society (being aided by newspapers) than it ever did of yore anywhere. This is the poison of the present day, which has more veneficæ to spread it than the Locustan or Borgian venoms ever found. Now for a merrier tale!”
“If all that’s written, talked or sunge
Must be of the follies of menne,
’Twere better that no one moved his tongue,
Or that none could use a penne.“Jog on, jog on the footpath-waye,
And cheerily jump the stile;
A merry heart goes all the daye,
A sad one tires in a mile!”
“Pazienza, paziendum!
Disse il diavolo a Sant Antonium.”“A scratching he heard and a horrible groan,
As of hundreds of cats with mollrowing and moan:
‘Oh!’ said he to himself, ‘sure the devil is come.’”—Mr. Jones and the Cats.
The celebrated Church of San Lorenzo is a grand museum of art, even among the many of its kind in Florence. It was originally a Roman Christian basilica, built by the matron Giuliana, which edifice was consecrated a.d. 373 by Saint Ambrose, and called the Basilica Ambrosiana. It was partially rebuilt by Brunelleschi in 1435, and completed with sad alteration, and finished by Antonio Manetti. As is well known, or has been made known by many great poets, it contains the grandest statuary by Michael Angelo in its monuments of Lorenzo de’ Medici and his uncle Giuliano.
This church served as a sanctuary in the olden time, and of this there is a tale told in the old collections of facetiæ, which, though trifling, is worth recalling as connected with it.
Il Debitore.
“Messer Paolo dell’ Ottonaio, a Canon of San Lorenzo in Florence, a cheerful and facetious man, found a certain citizen one of his friends, who had taken refuge as a debtor in the church; and the latter stood in sorrowful and pensive attitude, having in no wise the appearance of one who had found a treasure, or who was going to be married, or to dine with the Duke, or anything of the kind.
“‘Man, what aileth thee?’ cried the Canon. ‘Has thy wife beaten thee, or the cat broken thy best crockery, or thy favourite housemaid run away?’
“‘What I have,’ replied the poor man, ‘is ten times worse than all that put together.’ And so, havendo caro di sfogarsi, being glad to relieve himself, he told Messer Paolo all his sorrows, wailing that his creditors, having taken all his property, threatened his person, swearing that they would put him in the Stinche, which was so horrible a prison that it was infamous even then all the world over as an inferno where every one confined at once became infermo, or a hell which made men ill, and that, being in despair, he would have taken his own life had he not come across a charming book on patience which had consoled him.
“Messer Paolo asked him whether the creditors had been paid in full.
“‘Alas, no!’ replied the debtor; ‘not one half; nor will they ever get the rest, for I have naught.’
“‘In that case,’ answered the Canon, ‘it seems to me that it is your creditors and not you who should read that charming book, since it is evident that, as they are to have nothing till the Greek Kalends, or on Saint Never’s day, that they must have patience whether they will or no.’
“Well, as the saying is, Pazienza vince scienza (Patience beats knowledge), and Chi ha pazienza vede le sue vendette (Wait long enough and you’ll get your revenges), the Canon got for the poor man money enough to make a composition with his creditors, and he, having expectations which they knew not of, compounded with them for five per cent., on conditions written, that he should pay all up ‘as he earned more money.’
“And so he was set free, and it befell on a day that some relation died and left him a fortune, whereupon his creditors summoned him to pay his old debts, which he refused to do. Then they cited him before the Council as a fraudulent debtor, but he replied by showing his quittance or agreement, and declared that he was only obliged to pay out of his earnings, and that he had inherited his money and not earned it. Whereupon there was great dispute, and one of the creditors who had shown himself most unfeeling and inhuman protested that to get money in any way whatever was to guadagnare (a gain by labour), since it was labour even to put it in one’s pocket. Now, this man had a handsome wife, who, it was generally known, greatly enriched her husband by dishonouring him, at which he willingly winked.
“Whereupon the debtor asked the magistrate if an ox carried off a bundle of hay on his horns, which had by chance been stuck into it, he could be said to have earned it by honest labour? At which there was such a roar of laughter, and so many cries of ‘No! no! no!’ that the court went no further, and acquitted the culprit.”